


Paper Dollhouses in the Rain

by vega_voices



Series: Sleeps with Butterflies [17]
Category: CSI, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She wasn’t stabilizing. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Dollhouses in the Rain

**Title:** Paper Dollhouses in the Rain  
 **Series:** [Sleeps with Butterflies](http://vega-voices.livejournal.com/tag/sleeps%20with%20butterflies)  
 **Author:** [](http://vegawriters.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://vegawriters.livejournal.com/)**vegawriters**  
 **Fandom:** CSI  
 **Rating:** Mature  
 **Timeframe:** Living Doll/Dead Doll  
 **A/N:** This is part of the Sleeps with Butterflies series and holds all of the warnings associated with this series.  
 **Disclaimer:** I don’t own, don’t claim to own, although I wish I could have a hand in writing them. Seriously. Please don’t sue me. Hire me instead.

 **Summary:** _She wasn’t stabilizing._

_And if I only could_  
Make a deal with God  
I’d get him to swap our places  
~Running up that Hill/Placebo 

 

_“I’m two weeks late, Gil.”_

_He stared at her. The book he was holding fell from his hands to the floor and he blinked, three times. What had she just said? Sara was like clockwork. One day late was enough to signal something was up but two weeks? But, lately all she’d been doing was coming home from work and sleeping. All she’d been eating was bananas and bean burritos, claiming she needed the protein. Even coffee didn’t taste good to her right now._

_“Sara …” his heart raced. Her. Pregnant. Her. Carrying his child. Their child. But they hadn’t talked about children. Buying the house and raising his dog together was their current definition of commitment. She only shrugged and he realized she was waiting for him to do something other than stare at her like a terrified teenager. So he jumped up as fast as his knees would allow and moved across the room. She’d always been a perfect fit in his arms and now she put her head on his shoulder and he held her close against him. “Pick up a test before shift tonight. When we get some time …”_

_“Yeah.” She burrowed closer and all he could think about was a little girl with her eyes looking up at him._

Gil had grown so used to the endless beeping of the monitors that it was now part of his white noise, part of the filter. Just like the squeaking wheels in the hall and the brush of the scrubs worn by the hospital employees. What his mind couldn’t filter was Sara’s ragged breathing, the hiss of the oxygen, and the quiet groans that came every time she tried to shift position. Twenty-four hours out of the desert and the saline was still working its magic into her system, but her internal organs had started to shut down. Her kidneys were a mess. Her pancreas still on the verge of collapse. If they could get her rehydrated, she’d be fine. But her body had to accept the fluids. She still hadn’t spoken, had barely moved at all, and the cast that covered her arm was a reminder that weeks from now, the physical scars would remain. He could only guess as to the emotional ones. Every so often her eyes would flicker and she’d see him, squeeze his hand, and fall back asleep. The morphine was a dangerous risk – it could shut her down even while keeping the pain at bay. But without it, her body could go into shock. One morning, the doctor spoke to him in low tones about permanent kidney and nerve damage, but they wouldn’t know the full extent for a while.

She wasn’t stabilizing.

The pregnancy test they’d run had come back negative and had shown a level of white blood cells that could only be leukemia or a systemic infection of some sort. The doctors were erring on the side of infection. So in addition to the saline, they were flooding her body with enough antibiotics to fight off just about anything. Even if she had been pregnant, no baby could withstand what they were doing to her.

_“Grissom?”_

_He turned, the beaker in his hand. Greg stood in the doorway to the layout room, a brown paper evidence bag in his hands. “What is it, Greg?” They couldn’t stand around, holding evidence. Sara was trapped under a car in a flooding desert._

_“I just thought you might want to see this before I submit it. It was found in Sara’s kit.” Greg held out the bag and Grissom knew what was in it. The test. There was a drug store next to that veggie restaurant and she’d have ducked in there. She’d had her kit with her, a quick run to check on a scene she was clearing, so of course she’d have tucked the test into her kit and not her messenger bag. But he took the evidence bag and stared at the white plastic bag and the cardboard box that promised a 99% accuracy rate._

_They had to find her._

On day two, the bleeding began. It flowed, a dam broken between her legs, soaking through sheets and blankets. Her system playing catch up and the smell of copper filled the air while nurses changed pads every three hours. All Grissom could do was sit and pray to a God he no longer believed in.

_The steam followed her as she emerged from the bathroom. She could feel his blue eyes following her as she walked to the closet, dropping the towel along the way. Was he envisioning what she’d look like heavy with child? Was he hoping it was nothing but a quirk of the body? She couldn’t talk about it, not yet, not until they did the test, and he seemed perfectly happy to let her lead. He shifted on the bed as she pulled one of his smaller shirts off the hanger and draped it, open, around her body. Turning to him, she leaned against the door. This, she knew, would keep his mind occupied._

_It was such a turn on, that only he knew this side of her. The tattoos and the piercings, all her own symbols of survival. She’d made it through and he was the one left worshiping her. The look in his eyes beckoned her closer and she moved to his lap, hovering just above his legs. In an instant his fingers were inside of her and she pressed fingertips to his shoulders for balance._

_“I love you,” he rasped, before pushing her to her back. The shirt came up and over her arms, holding them in place and she was bound for him. Legs splayed, chest heaving, and he possessed her instantly. She came almost as soon as he plunged into her body, but he took his time, working her over and over, until she begged for a final release. While her body twitched and trembled around his receding cock, he’d kissed her, brutally._

_“Temptress,” he whispered into her ear when they’d both regained their breath._

_“I’m wearing this shirt to work.” He tensed just slightly and she smirked. They played with fire, daring stolen moments in the locker room and his office and once, after a court appearance, in the empty drying room she’d fallen to her knees and sucked him off while he kept quiet by stuffing his tie into his mouth. They wanted to get caught, but hated to admit it. Jim knew. Greg assumed._

What was left of the shirt had been submitted into evidence. She’d sat there in the rain, somehow tearing the cloth with her teeth and then, somehow, she’d maneuvered her broken arm into the sling. Would they find his sweat and some lingering DNA from their coupling or had the rain and mud washed it all away? They’d gone out to Icebox Canyon three weeks ago, taking their night off together and spending it under the stars, making love on her purple and black Mexican blanket. Had Natalie followed them that night? Had she known the significance of that canyon to them? Was that why she’d dropped Sara in the wash at the bottom and walked away, leaving her to the coyotes and the rain?

What had his team found at the house? Their house? Had they discovered places where Natalie had watched them? Had she broken in? Had they discovered the toy chest or Sara’s succulent garden or the matching gun cases she’d bought as a housewarming gift? His secrets were now the team’s secrets. The closet with their coats and the silk robe Sara liked to wear around the house just to drive him crazy. The hand carved box he’d bought for her body jewelry. The photo they’d had done, one of their many concessions to nearly-married life.

He didn’t care. They’d found Sara and so what if his life was now an open book. They’d found her. And if she didn’t make it and he disappeared into the void of nothingness that would be life without her, they’d understand. Because they’d have seen the flowers on the kitchen table and the book they were reading together and possibly even the box containing the matching gold bands. Had they found the scarf she kept tucked under her pillow, the one he used to tie her hands when he wanted her bound and wanting? How much time had he wasted because he wasn’t sure he wanted to change their lives? Now their lives were changed and Sara might never leave the hospital and he’d never vowed to care for her the rest of his life.

She woke. It was sudden, her body flooding with pinpricks of sensation. She could breathe a bit easier and her lower back ached less than her subconscious remembered. A light pressure on her hip told her Gil was there, waiting, he’d fallen asleep and she hated to wake him so she waited, staring at the top of his curly head. Had he moved? How long had it been?

She was floating. This way and that, her mind and body unconnected from each other. Pain killers, she could tell. And her arm was encased in plaster from her shoulder past her hand.  
He stirred and she watched his head lift from her hip. In his exhaustion he was child-like, scared, waking from a nightmare. He glanced around, confused, and she wanted to take the pain away. He looked back at her and lifted her barely useable hand to his lips and she would have cried if her body was able, but she was barely alive.

“I’m okay,” she tried to whisper. But the words got caught in her throat and wrapped up in the dry cotton of her tongue. She wanted to reach up and wipe his tears away, but her arm wouldn’t obey her mind. She couldn’t move anything and fear started to set in. What if something had happened? Was her neck broken? Was she broken?

Her eyelids closed again.

_Gil left her, still gasping, and looked for his clothes. The Killer was still on his mind, despite her best hopes to keep him occupied. When he was gone, Sara rolled over, her hands still wound into the shirt, and slept. Hank’s bark woke her and she glanced at a phantom in the window but then there was nothing. Nerves on edge, she opted to get to work. There was a scene she should have cleared twelve hours ago, so she could stop on her way into the lab and get the tape down. She could also stop and pick up a test and maybe convince herself to eat something down at the Veggie Shack. But her teasing threat to him remained and she shook out the shirt and buttoned it over the black v-neck she’d end up wearing for shift. Sleeves rolled up, she still looked like a girl wearing her boyfriend’s shirt, and she realized just how much she liked the look. Liked looking like Gil had just fucked her senseless. If only the team knew._

A quick walk for Hank and she put him down in the mud room. He’d be okay there rather than going to the sitter. She wasn’t planning on being gone more than her usual shift time. Work called. And she had a lover to tease.

This time, when the room focused, she was more aware of her body. Gil was there, awake this time, his eyes scanning through some battered paperback he probably didn’t have to pay attention to. He’d changed from what she thought she remembered; a blue shirt that brought out the blue in his eyes. She’d got it for him last Christmas.

He glanced up and met her eyes and she gave as tired a smile as her body would muster. “Hey.” He spoke softly, as if he were worried his words could hurt her. This man, who had no qualms with tying her to their bed and making her beg while he went balls deep, could whisper so softly that even a butterfly wouldn’t be disturbed. “Welcome back.” He looked better. Relieved. As if she was out of some kind of danger. Her mouth wasn’t quite as dry and her body didn’t ache quite as much.

“Hi …” it was whispered but at least the words made it past her lips this time. He leaned over and touched her hand. “You’re going to be okay,” he reassured her. “Your arm is fractured in two places, but they didn’t need to put a pin in. You were dehydrated and your body had started to shut down, but your internal organs are working again.” He paused and stroked her hair, “It was an infection, Sara. You weren’t pregnant. They’ve got you on IV antibiotics. You’re going to be fine. Once you get your strength back, I can even take you home.”

Home. How long had she been sleeping? She wanted to be sad that she wasn’t pregnant but she was too tired. He pushed a button. To summon the nurse she supposed. Her eyes just wouldn’t stay open but when she closed them this time, the sleep felt better.

Day seven, while God rested, Sara rose from her death bed and Grissom took her home. A week after Natalie, after the desert, after the heart attack of seeing the car buried in the sand, Sara was home. Her vest was in evidence, along with that shirt and her clothing and the Taser barbs that had gone into her heart.

She made her way up the stairs from the carport, clinging to the banister while Grissom walked behind, ready to catch her should she trip. Her legs shook visibly and she made it to the couch before collapsing and he gathered pillows and blankets to tuck around her. He sat on the floor and watched movies on Netflix while she slept, wrapped in one of his shirts. Hank stood guard. Once an hour, Grissom woke her to get a few sips of water and some ice chips into her system. Every four hours it was time for a pain pill. Every eight for her antibiotic. Twice a day he forced food into her. Nothing she could choke on. Only applesauce, creamed spinach, squash.

Greg stopped by and Grissom allowed him to sit a spell and disappeared into his home office, locked the door, and slept the sleep of the undead. That night, Grissom helped her up the stairs to their bed and he held her while she managed to sleep without the help of the drugs.

But the nightmares remained.


End file.
